


It’s What My Rotting Bones Will Sing

by HeavensCrack



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bounce A Coin Bingo- MCD, Ciri has two dads and one is a ghost, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, They’re all hurt tbh, but they get happier!, ghost jaskier, they love each other very much, this is meant to be a cute fic with some slight stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26831671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeavensCrack/pseuds/HeavensCrack
Summary: Jaskier dies in a bandit attack, but he stays with his family.Or, Ghost Jaskier loves his Witcher, witch, and daughter too much to leave.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 192
Collections: Bounce A Coin Bingo





	It’s What My Rotting Bones Will Sing

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve had this fic idea living in my head rent-free since the first time I properly listened to Welly Boots way back in March. It just screamed “Ciri” to me. 
> 
> This is heavily inspired by Welly Boots by The Amazing Devil, but the title comes from Fair (also by TAD). 
> 
> This was written for the Bounce A Coin server’s bingo, filling the prompt of “Major Character Death.” All mistakes are my own.

“We must stop soon, my blisters have blisters,” Jaskier exclaims. 

Geralt snorts on top of Roach. “Maybe if you didn’t wear those shitty boots.” 

“Shitty? These are of the _finest_ Redanian leather, and they are the opposite of shitty, my dear Witcher.” 

“Hm,” Geralt says. 

“What do you know about the fine skill of cobbling?” Jaskier demands. “Exactly. So don’t ‘clearly not’ me.” 

Geralt looks down at Jaskier with a fond smile, shaking his head slightly. Jaskier can read him like an open book, knowing exactly what every hum and grunt means without Geralt having to make any other noise. He can’t deny it amuses him to see the confusion on everyone else’s faces when he and Jaskier have a full conversation with him making the slightest sounds. It still amazes him, but when they spent over two decades together, they were bound to get to know each other in every way. 

“You could always ride with me on Roach,” Geralt offers. 

“I’m a wandering bard, Geralt! I need the feel of the… _fuck…_ stones and every fucking thing on this stupid path, and I can’t play when I’m on a horse! Besides, I can’t leave the side of my lovely Roachie, she’d be too sad.” 

Geralt sighs. 

“He’ll never stop calling her Roachie,” Ciri says, laughing. 

“No I won’t, because she’s my lovely Roachie girl,” Jaskier coos. “My darling sweet angel. _Ow_.” 

“We’ll stop at the next clearing,” Geralt decides. Jaskier beams up at him. 

“How come you don’t call me your angel?” Ciri asks. 

“Because I know you,” Jaskier says, ruffling her hair. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she huffs. 

“It means you’re a little shit,” Geralt says, deadpan.

“Rude!” Ciri says, pretending to be hurt. 

“As always, my love, a master of words. But yes, Ciri, you’re too much of a little shit. Roachie, however, can do no wrong, ever,” Jaskier says, his eyes crinkling around the corners. 

“Wait and see if I walk with you again tomorrow,” Ciri mutters. When it’s only her and Geralt on hunts, she always rides beside him on her mare, but she loves walking beside Jaskier. “Old man,” she adds. 

He looks wounded, turning to Geralt. “Do you hear this? Little shit!” 

Geralt just snorts, dismounting off Roach. “We’re stopping here.” 

“Oh thank fuck,” Jaskier moans. 

The three have been travelling for several weeks now in search of contracts after the long winter in Kaer Morhen. Geralt figures Jaskier’s only complaining because he spent the season off his feet, with every comfort available in the keep, which, to be fair, wasn’t a whole lot, what with the drafts that years of repairs haven’t been able to stop. Still, winter made them all slow and relaxed. 

“Sit down,” Geralt says, rummaging through Roach’s saddlebag until he finds the jar of salve and a roll of bandages. Jaskier rolls his eyes and happily flops into the grass. Geralt kneels beside him, gently pulling off the other man’s boots. 

“I’m fine, love,” Jaskier says. “Mother hen.” 

Geralt hums, seeing how bloodied the man’s feet really are. He pours some water from the skin on Jaskier’s soles, wincing internally when the man hisses. 

Ciri watches the two of them as she brushes the horses. Geralt, as long as she’s known him, has been rough around the edges, but Jaskier smooths those edges. He’s more willing to smile, to talk, to let that permanent scowl off his face. Ciri has helped with that too over the years, but she can’t deny it’s Jaskier who wormed under his defences and softened the man. 

Geralt wraps the bandages around the bard’s feet, and Jaskier immediately wraps his legs around the Witcher and pulls him to settle between his legs. Jaskier hugs the larger man from behind, kissing his cheek softly. Geralt tilts his head, resting it against the other man’s. He grabs Jaskier’s hand, stroking slow circles on the skin with his thumb. Ciri’s heart warms. _This is how it should be,_ she thinks. Her family, almost all together, happy, content. 

“You two are disgusting,” she announces. “I’m going to be actually useful and go hunting.” 

“Yes, you do that,” Jaskier says. “Make sure our useless, disgusting old asses don’t starve.” 

Laughing slightly, she takes her daggers out of her belt and wanders into the trees. 

*** 

“You’re good to me,” Jaskier murmurs. “My good, wonderful Witcher. What did I do to deserve you?”

“You refused to leave me alone,” Geralt rumbles. Jaskier laughs softly. 

“I couldn’t let you run off without me, now could I?” 

“I couldn’t leave you if I tried,” Geralt answers.

“Because I’d follow.”

“No, because I love you.” 

Jaskier’s heart quickens, as it does every time he hears it. _I love you._ It took years, years of travelling, of fighting, of all those moments, for Geralt to say those words. 

He doesn’t have to say them. Jaskier knew, eventually. When he looks back, he can see how Geralt said “I love you” with every little action. He says it with every cold night, the offer to share warmth. He says it with the extra bread on Jaskier’s plate. He says it with every tender touch, the salve on his fingers after a particularly nasty bar fight. Passing a fresh pot of ink without being asked, the smiles reserved just for Jaskier, the slight nods when Jaskier asks him about compositions. Geralt shows his love through his actions, but there’s something about those three little words that make Jaskier flutter.

And Geralt loves it. He loves how for all the truly crude things he’s heard his bard say, he can still make the man blush. He loves how Jaskier is always touching- a brush of his hand across Geralt’s shoulder, pressing their knees together at a table, soft kisses on the cheek when walking past, leaning against Geralt’s back when composing, Jaskier loves to feel connected. It’s easy between them, they just are. Geralt and Jaskier, a Witcher and his bard. 

They hear rustling in the forest behind them. 

“You’re back early,” Jaskier calls, not looking away from the forest ahead. She’s fast, their Ciri. 

Geralt tenses, suddenly on high alert. That’s not Ciri. There are several heartbeats in the forest, coming closer… 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, worried. 

“Bandits,” Geralt growls. They both shoot up, Geralt reaching out a hand as Jaskier winces from the weight on his feet. 

“How many?” Jaskier asks, reaching for his dagger. 

“Sounds like five, maybe six.” Geralt frowns, grabbing his sword from where he had dropped the belt on the ground. “You should go, try finding Ciri. Get out and make sure she’s okay.” 

“I’m not leaving you,” Jaskier hisses.

“You’ll be-”

“You’ll be giving us all your coin, if you please,” a nasally voice says. Five men emerge from the trees, wicked grins on their faces. _Five_ , Geralt thinks, _five isn’t bad. None would be preferable, but I can take them._

“I don’t please, actually,” Jaskier says, his tone light but steely. 

“It doesn’t matter what you think, pretty boy, we’ll be taking what you have.” 

“Leave now,” Geralt warns. “If you leave now, it’ll be with your heads still attached.” 

Unfortunately, these men aren’t the wisest around and decide to continue prowling forward. 

Geralt flashes Jaskier one of his famous “don’t move” glares as he takes a step forward to meet the bandits. That look has never once worked on Jaskier, and he’s not about to start listening to it. He pulls his dagger out of his boot, raising it defensively in front of him. 

Naturally, all the men go after Geralt, thinking him the bigger threat. They’re right, but Jaskier would like _some_ credit. He can be dangerous too! 

Geralt cuts down the first few men easily. He definitely will win this fight, not a scratch on him! Geralt doesn’t see the sixth bandit creeping out of the woods behind him, but Jaskier does. 

Jaskier doesn’t think, just runs over to where the woman is stalking forward. She’s fast, but untrained, her swipes far too wide. It’s clear she’s not used to the sword in her hand, probably stolen off of a corpse she robbed. 

Jaskier needs to be careful though, because she’s got far more reach than him. He dodges a few more slashes before hitting her wrist and making her drop the blade with a cry. He thrusts forward, wincing at the squelch as his steel sinks into her stomach. 

He watches her fall, unable to help the pang of sadness. She doesn’t look much older than Ciri. He sinks to his knees beside her, using his bloody fingers to close her eyes. He had to kill her, she would’ve hurt his Geralt, but he still wishes her peace. 

He turns his back, reaching for her sword. They can probably sell it in the next town for a decent amount of coin.

He doesn’t notice the girl’s shallow breaths. He also doesn’t notice her pull the dagger from her gut. 

***

“Fucking bandits,” Geralt says, kicking the corpse of one man with his boot. “You’d think they’d learn by now.” 

“Mmm,” Jaskier replies. Geralt turns, ready to make some kind of remark about Jaskier’s lack of one, when he sees something that makes the world stop spinning. 

“No,” he growls. “Jaskier, _no_.” 

Jaskier offers a weak smile from where he’s lying in the dirt. 

“Jask,” Geralt says, scooping the man in his arms. 

The point of a dagger, his dagger, is sticking out between his ribs. Blood spreads against the blue of his doublet, staining the fine silk. All Geralt can think about is how pissed Jaskier will be when he’s healed, because he _will_ heal, there’s no other option. 

“You’re very cuddly today,” Jaskier says, reaching his hand to stroke Geralt’s cheek. “I’ll be up in a minute, I feel _great,_ really, nothing to get the blood pumping like a good tussle in the woods-”

Geralt’s heart sinks. _Fuck._ He hasn’t seemed to have noticed the blade. The bard is probably running on pure adrenaline. 

He needs… he needs to find Yen. He can’t do this. If Yen can get here before the adrenaline wears off, before the pain can kick in, it’ll be okay. It _will_ be okay. 

“I’m back!” Ciri calls, holding a brace of rabbits. “I-” she freezes, seeing the bodies surrounding the two men, and- “no!” 

Geralt snarls at her, as if he doesn’t recognize her, and the bard in his arms, bolts into the forest. 

Ciri’s too shocked to follow him. What the _fuck_ just happened? 

*** 

Geralt tears through the woods, stopping only when he comes across another clearing, dropping to his knees and pulling Jaskier onto his lap. 

“Yen,” he roars, clutching the necklace she gave him years back, a direct line to her in case he needed anything for Ciri. “Yen, I know you can hear me!” 

A portal opens up a minute later. 

The coppery stench of blood is mixing now with something worse, the acrid scent of pain. The adrenaline is wearing off. Jaskier moans softly, making Geralt panic. 

“What the fuck- oh, _fuck_ ,” she whispers, violet eyes taking in the scene.

“Heal him,” Geralt croaks. “Please.” 

“Geralt-”

“Please,” his voice breaks. 

Yen rushes over, laying her hand on the bard’s chest. 

Jaskier’s eyes flutter open. “Insane, sexy witch,” he says. “Hello gorgeous.” He coughs, splattering blood on Geralt’s chin. 

“You stupid man,” Yen scolds, trying to keep her voice steady. She can see the bloody tip of the dagger. She can imagine there are hundreds who want to stab the bard in the back, but none in the middle of fucking nowhere. “What did you do to get yourself stabbed?” 

“Protecting,” Jaskier says, waving his hand, his chest starting to rise and fall rapidly. “Back.” 

“I have armour,” Geralt says, agonized.

“Armour is shit,” Jaskier says. “Fuck, Geralt!” He gasps, so much like so many years ago in Rinde. 

“Hurry up,” Geralt snaps at Yen. 

“I don’t… I don’t think there’s anything I can do,” Yennefer says, helpless. “It… fuck, it punctured his lung but I think it’s worse than that. It severed his _spine_ , Geralt, I don’t have what I need to fix this right now. And if I take the dagger out, he’ll bleed out. I don’t have time, or my potions-”

“Find something,” he snarls. “I’ve seen you before, this is _nothing_ , most powerful sorceress my-”

Yen flinches back as if he struck her. 

He feels a squeeze on his arm. “Shhh,” Jaskier breathes. “’S okay.” 

“Don’t,” Geralt begs. “Don’t leave me.” 

“Never.” 

“Yen,” Geralt snaps. 

“I don’t know,” she shouts frantically. “Jaskier? Come on, you fool, stay awake. Stay with me, Jaskier!” 

Jaskier mumbles something unintelligible to her, but Geralt understands. He always understands. Geralt nods, stroking the bard’s sweat slicked hair. 

“Open a portal,” Geralt growls. 

“What?” Yen asks, blinking. _What the fuck?_

“To the coast,” he demands. “Just… any coast. Somewhere nice.” 

Numbly, because _what the fuck,_ she opens the portal, thinking of the beach she had found herself on years ago, when she still worked for the court. Wordlessly, Geralt stands, still cradling the bard who hasn’t stopped mumbling, and walks through. He doesn’t spare Yen another glance. 

*** 

“Look,” Geralt whispers. “We’re here. Took us long enough, hm?” 

They’re on a beach now, the azure waves lapping at their knees. It’s beautiful and empty, save the two of them and the screaming seagulls. 

“Mm,” Jaskier tries to hum. He coughs weakly, more blood dribbling out the corners of his mouth. 

“Don’t try stealing my lines,” Geralt attempts to joke, but his voice breaks. 

Jaskier raises his hand, resting it against Geralt’s chin, and his eyes are clear and full of love, expressing everything he wishes he could say, but he’s tired. His tongue feels like it weighs a million pounds, and he’s getting cold. His chest doesn’t even hurt that much anymore. He can feel his heart slow, and he smirks, because hey, maybe he’ll be matching his Witcher. Slow, slow, slow heart… and then, it stops. 

Jaskier’s hand falls. 

Geralt grabs it desperately. “Jaskier, buttercup, please.” 

There’s no response. He wasn’t expecting there to be. 

Geralt stays kneeling, holding Jaskier’s hand in a bone-crushing grip until all the warmth leeches away.

Somehow, he manages to stand. He gathers all the driftwood he can, his head thankfully empty. _Gather the wood, Geralt._ Mechanically, he builds a pyre. 

He manages to lift the body (he can’t think of it as Jaskier. Jaskier is smiles and songs and _alive._ ) onto the pyre before slowly tracing the sign for Igni. 

The pyre flairs up, the flames crackling blue and orange. Jaskier would’ve loved it, would’ve pulled out his notebook and scrawled all his thoughts on the beauty of the salt shifting the colours. His eyes would’ve reflected beautifully as they stared in awe. 

Geralt watches the fire for Jaskier, until all that remains are ashes blowing towards the sea. 

***

Ciri waits, but Geralt and Jaskier don’t come back. 

She leaves, assuming the worst. If they don’t come back… she cuts Roach loose, trusting her to follow Kelpie to town. Geralt isn’t here, so Ciri will have to be the next best thing. She flinches when she sees the lute and swords still attached to Roach’s saddle bags. Ciri hops on Kelpie’s back and rides as fast as she can to the nearest town. 

*** 

“Geralt?” 

Geralt is sitting on a boulder at the edge of a cliff, his gaze cast out to the horizon. It’s familiar, reminding Jaskier of another cliff, another moment. That was before Geralt had accepted his love. Jaskier doesn’t remember how they got here, but he remembers this posture, and he knows his love needs him. 

Jaskier carefully walks to the rock, sitting beside him. “Geralt? What’s wrong? Talk to me.” 

“Are you here to punish me?” Geralt asks, his shoulders slumped with the weight of the world. 

“Why would I punish you?” Jaskier asks, confused. “Are you okay?” 

Geralt turns to face the bard, and Jaskier’s chest aches at the look of pure anguish on the other man’s face. 

“What happened,” Jaskier breathes. “Is Ciri…?” He moves to Geralt’s side, reaching out to grab his hand, but he misses. No, he doesn’t miss, his hand goes _through_ and- “Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice hitches in panic. “Geralt, why can’t I touch you?” 

“You don’t remember?” Geralt laughs bitterly. 

“I don’t remember…” Jaskier looks down, seeing the knife protruding from his ribs, and it hits him all at once. “Geralt, Geralt, it’s me, dear heart, it’s me,” he says desperately. “I died. I died but I’m here, and it’s _me_. Holy fuck. I died.” 

“Why are you here?” Geralt asks flatly.

“I’m here because I love you,” Jaskier says, his voice coloured with shock. This has to be true. Why else would he be here? _Don’t leave me_ , he remembers Geralt plead. _Never,_ Jaskier had promised. He’ll never leave. 

“Fuck off,” Geralt’s voice holds no venom though, just a deep sorrow that makes Jaskier feel like he’s getting stabbed all over again. But the worst feeling is knowing Geralt is being his typical self and closing himself off. 

“Don’t do this, don’t shut me out again,” Jaskier begs. He flickers and vanishes. 

***  
“Yen,” a familiar voice whispers. 

Yennefer closes her eyes and takes another swig of wine. She’d say she isn’t nearly drunk enough, but she might change her stance now that she’s hallucinating. Her lips twist bitterly. Out of all the voices, why is it _his?_

“Really? Drinking Cidarian wine? Toussaint has the best vintage, we both know this.” 

Yen scowls. She doesn’t need her guilty conscience to scold her on her wine tastes, thank you very much. She takes another swallow, wincing at the sour dregs at the bottom of the bottle. Ugh, the wine really was shit. 

“Don’t ignore me, you awful witch.” 

“Oh, fuck off, won’t you?” she snaps. 

“Yen,” he whispers. “ _Yen._ Can you look at me?” She draws a shuddering breath when she hears his voice crack. He sounds so broken. Broken because she couldn’t fix him. She wants to drown out his voice. Gods, getting drunk was supposed to make her forget, not be bombarded by her failure. 

_“Yen.”_

Finally, she cracks open her eyes, if only to prove to herself that this isn’t real. 

Jaskier is standing in front of her, his garish blue doublet stained red with blood, his eyes wide and hurt. He steps towards her, stepping through a chair. 

Yen blinks. Her eyes feel wet, this isn’t right. When she opens her eyes again, he’ll be gone. This will just be some drunken hallucination. 

He’s still there. 

“Yen,” he says. 

“Bard,” she hiccups. She’s definitely drunker than she originally thought. _Ah, fuck it,_ she thinks. If he’s a drunken vision, she can say whatever she wants. “I’m-”

“Don’t you dare,” Jaskier warns. “Don’t you dare try to apologize. There was nothing you could’ve done.” 

“Try telling that to Geralt,” Yennefer sniffles. Angrily, she wipes the corners of her eyes. She could’ve done something. She healed him from a djinn, for fuck’s sake. Most powerful sorceress on the Continent… well, that isn’t worth much when she can’t even save her friends, is it? She can’t save one, and she knows she’ll be blamed. She and Geralt worked so hard to fix their friendship after he found Ciri, and Melitele, they tried. They’ve been on a great foot as friends for the last six years as they raised Ciri. But that’s Geralt. He gets upset, he lashes out on whoever is convenient. 

“Funny how we’re back here, isn’t it,” Jaskier muses. “Look at us two pals after a good fight with one stubborn asshole. Cheer up, buster, we’ve been here before!” 

Yen raises an eyebrow, _buster?_ Despite herself, she lets herself smirk. He’s right, of course, they have been here before. In the long months after the mountain top, when Yen was trying to sort through the feelings of the wish and Jaskier was licking his wounds, they spent many nights in seedy taverns together, forming an unlikely bond. He still thought she was insane and cruel, she thought he was foppish and foolish, but was he ever fun to get drunk with. 

Over the weeks, they had both realized they were wrong about each other. Jaskier was much smarter than she gave him credit for, he just was stupid around Geralt. Yennefer did have a heart, she just hid it under layers of defensiveness. She wasn’t the homewrecking bitch he thought she was, she was just looking for love, just as he was. They raised a glass to both not getting it. 

Then Geralt found them both, with Ciri in hand. Yen first, but Jaskier not long after. They had mended their relationships with him, and continued to build their friendship. 

She remembers the panicked call over the xenovorex after Jaskier had kissed Geralt for the first time (and then hours later, the panicked call from Geralt). She remembers Jaskier’s grin when she asked him to write a particularly scathing ditty about a mayor who had pissed her off. She remembers the nights by the fire, Jaskier braiding flowers into her daughter’s hair while telling her stories, then braiding the same flowers into Yen’s while Ciri begs Geralt to let her do the same to him. 

Jaskier was a huge driving force in keeping their little family together. And now he’s gone. Well, apparently not gone, he’s managed to annoyingly wheedle his way back into her life (not annoyingly. But she will never admit that.). 

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Yen,” he confesses suddenly. “I don’t know how long I’ve got. I thought whenever I would go, I’d be ready. I don’t regret a single moment, not one. Part of the beauty in life is that it ends, right? But I’m not. I’m not ready to go.” 

“What are you?” she asks. “A wraith?” 

“I don’t _feel_ vengeful,” Jaskier sighs. “I just want to stay, Yen. I want to stay with you, and Ciri, and Geralt.” 

“Then stay,” she says. 

He smiles at that. Maybe it could be that easy. 

*** 

Geralt is still sitting on that rock when Jaskier comes back. He hopes the witcher has been meditating. 

“Don’t pretend you can’t see me,” Jaskier calls. “It’s never worked in the past.” 

“Where did you go?” Geralt asks. His voice is raw, almost as though he had been crying or screaming. Jaskier’s heart breaks a little. He doesn’t want Geralt to mourn him, not while he’s still here. 

“Yen,” Jaskier replies. Geralt’s face twists into a deep scowl. “Don’t be mad at Yennefer,” Jaskier says. “She tried her best.” 

“It wasn’t good enough,” he growls. 

“It was. Forgive her, love.” 

Geralt knows it isn’t truly her fault. He knew that there wasn’t a chance, the human body can only lose so much blood. But blaming Yennefer is much easier than blaming himself. If he was _faster,_ maybe he could’ve gotten to that bandit before he got Jaskier. Witchers grow old and slow, too slow. But Geralt isn’t the one who died for it. 

“How the fuck am I supposed to carry on without you here, Jask,” Geralt murmurs. 

“You’re not. You won’t be without me,” Jaskier replies, putting all his energy into resting his head on Geralt’s shoulder. He’s delighted to know that he can now touch his love. He can feel Geralt slowly relax into his touch. They sit on the edge of the cliff together, watching the waves roll in the fading sun. 

***

Ciri throws another stick in the fire, her veins burning just as hot. She hadn’t found any trace of the monster tonight, which pisses her off. She understands how Geralt feels, needing to go out in the world and stick her sword in something. The faster this contract goes, the faster she can move onto the next, and the next, and the next. But the damn thing is covering its tracks, which means there’s nothing she can do right now. 

She leans over to grab her silver dagger, flipping it from hand to hand, trying to distract herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees something moving on the edge of the clearing. She throws the dagger, hearing a slight yelp as the blade sinks into a tree.

“Watch where you’re throwing that, you could hurt someone,” a man’s voice scolds.

“That’s the plan,” she snarls, her sword out. She freezes when she gets a clearer look at the man, her heart nearly stopping. “Jaskier?”

“Ciri-” he steps towards her, looking the same as he did when she saw him last… down to the gaping hole in his chest. He flickers slightly, coming closer, his hands stretched out in front of him, as if in a peace offering.

“Fuck off, you’re not really him,” she hisses. Her thoughts are racing. It can’t be him, if it was, he would’ve come sooner. 

“It’s me, Ciri,” the ghost pleads. 

“No. Stay back, or I will stab you. Silver for the monsters, it would work on you, wouldn’t it?” She looks at him closely, watching the spirit’s face twist in an expression of heartbreak, one that almost stomps the broken pieces of her own into oblivion. Almost.

“Why won’t you believe it’s me, cub?” he whispers.

“Because you left me,” she suddenly screams. “Jaskier wouldn’t have left me behind.” 

“Oh, Cirilla,” Jaskier says softly. “Just because I left doesn’t mean I’m not still here.”

“Why, Jaskier? Why did you leave me?”

“It wasn’t my idea,” he smiles wryly. 

“I know you didn’t want to die. I mean why didn’t you come back?” she demands. If he was a ghost this entire time, why didn’t he come see her earlier? It’s been weeks since Geralt vanished with a bleeding Jaskier in his arms. She’s been worried out of her mind for her dads. And now? _Now_ is when he comes back? 

“Geralt… he needed me more, love. After… I was scared he’d do something stupid, like try to join me. You know him. He’s not good with emotions. But you, I knew you’d miss me, but I also know you’re strong enough to do this on your own.” He raises a hand, as if to cup her face, but he lets it drop. “I’m so proud of you, you know that, right? Getting to watch you grow up was the greatest blessing life gave me.”

Ciri sniffles, her anger fading. Stubbornly, she rubs her eyes. She won’t let the tears fall. 

“It’s okay to cry,” Jaskier says, noticing her struggle. 

“Witchers don’t cry,” she replies, the lump in her throat growing. 

“We both know that’s not true. Hey, look at me.” His eyes meet her reluctant ones. “There’s a strength in emotion, Ciri. If I’ve taught you one thing, remember that. Love is a powerful force. It hurts as much as a twisted dagger, but it also gives you strength. Don’t cut yourself off from it.”

Ciri remembers how much Jaskier used love as his weapon. Since she was a child in Cintra, listening to him sing at her annual birthday banquets (her grandmother only kept inviting him back because he always seemed to get into some kind of trouble, which entertained her far more than the performance itself), he had always been in her life, which she now knows was his attempt of making sure she was safe, especially when Geralt wouldn’t come. She remembers him grabbing her hands and twirling her around whenever he was finished a set, shooting her winks when it was his turn to play. 

She remembers seeing him dance on the table in a tavern years later, unable to help herself from shouting his name, much to Geralt’s horror. The way his face lit up when he saw her, face falling when he saw her companion. 

She remembers how he immediately agreed to travel to Kaer Morhen with them when she begged, being guarded around the Witcher but slowly warming back up. 

She remembers waking up in his arms after a nightmare, softly singing to her until her heart stopped pounding and the fear vanished. She remembers him soothing Geralt with a hand on his shoulder, she remembers his red face after a shouting match with any drunkard who’d dare insult Geralt, or Vesemir whenever he or the others pushed her too hard, regardless of how much she said she could handle it. Both those situations usually ended with Geralt picking the angry bard up and physically removing him before he tried to hit them. Jaskier loved with his whole being, and she was never an exception to this.

“I miss you,” she confesses. “I know I have Yenna, and Triss, and everyone at Kaer Morhen but it’s not the same… it’s not you and Geralt.”

“He’s coming back soon,” Jaskier promises. “And I will be here as long as I can, love. You’ve grown up so much,” he whispers. “I keep thinking about that little girl with so much rage in her heart. When you shoved over Lambert that one time because he, well, said something very Lambert, with that fire in your eyes… Melitele’s tits, you made me laugh. You’re a survivor, Ciri. I’ve known that since I’ve met you. My lion cub.” 

“I’m not a cub anymore,” she says. 

“You’ll always be my cub,” Jaskier says fondly, “no matter how much you’ve grown.” Ciri can feel her eyes well up. 

“Can you sing to me?” she asks, not trusting herself to be able to talk more.

“Of course,” he says, and starts singing her song. She drifts off once again to the sound of his voice, for a moment, feeling as warm and safe as she did as a child. 

*** 

Geralt arrives in the town a few days later. Ciri sees him as she’s feeding Kelpie an apple, getting ready to leave this shithole. He runs to Roach, stroking her nose with a hushed apology, then hurries to Ciri, taking her into his arms. 

“I’m sorry,” he rumbles, holding her tight.

“Don’t do that again,” she says, squeezing him back. “Don’t leave without telling me.” 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. 

A translucent arm wraps around the two of them, freezing them both to the touch. 

“Fuck!” Ciri shouts, leaping away from the older man. “Jaskier, you’re cold!” 

“Guess I need my witcher to warm me up,” he teases, throwing his arms around Geralt’s neck. The man doesn’t flinch, but rolls his head towards where he can see the bard’s head.

“First, gross,” Ciri says. Jaskier laughs. “Secondly, can you even-”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, dear,” he says. Geralt just smiles. 

“Not even death can stop you from being horny,” she complains. She instantly regrets it when she sees Geralt’s face falter. 

“Ciri love,” Jaskier says quickly. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Yeah?”

“Go to the tavern and get drunk for me. Get this idiot properly hammered too,” he says, grinning.

“We don’t have the coin to get drunk,” Geralt hums. 

“But Geralt,” Jaskier whines, taking the particular tone he has when he’s about to ask something Geralt really doesn't like. 

“What do you want?” 

“I suppose I’ll have to ask you sober. We must make a stop at Oxenfurt, as soon as possible.” 

“Why? You haven’t been in years, your stuff is no longer there.” 

“I need to go back and haunt Valdo Marx, make him properly shit his pants.” 

Geralt sighs. Over the years, he’s heard so many excuses to go back to Oxenfurt- _oh, my gorgeous garrotter, I need you to help test my new lute strings, to see if they’re strong enough to choke the bitch known as Valdo Marx out. My spare lute needs to be broken in, I want to see if it can withstand a good fight. Shall we test it on a certain bastard of Cidaris? I’ve never met anyone with a thicker head, he’s simply perfect for this._

“One day,” Geralt promises. He thinks this is an awful idea, but the grin that splits Jaskier’s face is well worth it. Maybe it is time for Geralt to finally see what a pompous cock Valdo Marx really is. 

“Geralt, my heart, my most cherished being, the one for whom the earth turns, I knew I fell in love with you for a reason!”

Ciri rolls her eyes again, heading into the tavern muttering something about gross old men. Geralt’s fond expression drops after she leaves the stables. 

“It’s not fair,” Geralt whispers. “I thought we had years more.” 

“We always knew I would go first, Geralt, it wasn’t a secret. I made my peace with it long ago. I’m grateful for the time we had together,” Jaskier says seriously. “The good and the bad.” 

“I didn’t deserve you.” 

“We deserved each other. You’re a good man, Geralt, I wish you could see that.” 

Geralt’s lips twitch. “Only you could see a butcher and call him a hero.” 

“Shut up,” Jaskier hisses. Geralt shakes his head. It’s an argument they’ve had a hundred times. “You and I both know what happened in Blavikin, and it _wasn’t your fault._ You’re undeniably a bastard, but you help people, Geralt. You’re the most caring man I know and I’d like you to stop referring to yourself as a monster.” 

“Why do you care so much?” 

“When you talk like this, it’s a slap in my face,” Jaskier snaps. Geralt looks at him, surprised. “I’ve spent my entire life following you around, I know you better than anyone. My entire career was based on helping people see that you are not the villain. You make it seem like that was meaningless.” 

“It wasn’t,” Geralt says. “Not to me.” 

“Not to me either,” he replies quietly. 

“Why are you here, Jaskier?” 

“You, always you,” Jaskier says. “My unfinished business.” He laughs a little. “I think… I think I’m supposed to be with you until you don’t need me anymore.” 

“I’ll always need you,” Geralt says. He smirks, thinking back to a bathtub in an inn, how stubborn he was in his insistence that he didn’t need anyone. Ciri and Yen and Jaskier… they showed him time and time again he was wrong. 

“And so, here we are,” Jaskier says. 

“Here we are,” Geralt agrees. And here they’ll stay. 

Geralt turns back to the tavern. He’ll have a hot meal with his daughter, and then they’ll be back on the road where they belong, his girl, his horse, and his bard, wandering the Path as a family. Geralt didn’t think he could have this, but he’s happy.


End file.
